


Five times Eames ignored reality and one time reality kicked him in the face

by teacuphuman



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, catfic, it's a kind of magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Eames enjoys the company of a small, grey cat. Well, 'enjoys' might be a stretch.





	Five times Eames ignored reality and one time reality kicked him in the face

**1.**

Eames is in the shower, singing Sinatra at the top of his lungs when he hears something hit the floor. He freezes, which, he realizes a second after he does it, is probably a stupid thing to do since whoever is in his apartment knows that he knows they’re there. A second thud nearly has him slipping and braining himself on the side of the tub because it’s too close. Too close as in whatever fell hit the bathroom floor, just outside the shower. 

 

Something else hits the floor, bouncing off the tile and Eames figures whoever it is means for him to hear it, so he peeks cautiously around the curtain. His toothpaste, beard brush, and the plastic cup he uses to rinse with are scattered around the floor and a small grey cat is sitting on the edge of the counter, watching him.

 

He’d left the window open to let out the steam, so it’s no mystery how the cat got in, but when he looks pointedly at his things on the floor, then at the cat, the cat gives him a look with so much blatant challenge in it that Eames feels oddly intimidated.

 

“Leave the rest alone,” he warns, hurrying through his washing before the cat goes for the porcelain shaving dish on the other side of the counter.

 

He expects the cat to have wandered off through the cracked bathroom door when he gets out, but it’s still sitting there when he opens the curtain and steps out. Watching. The cat’s eyes roam his body in a way that makes him want to cover his bits, so he grabs his towel and wraps it around his waist. 

 

“All right, you,” he pushes the window open wider. “Out.”

 

Cats can’t roll their eyes, Eames tells himself, even though this cat very obviously did just that before letting out a protesting mewl and slinking over to the window. It pauses briefly to push the shaving dish off the counter and by the time Eames looks up from diving to catch it, the cat is gone.

 

**2.**

Eames swears and slams the drawer shut, opens the one beneath it and riffles through his undershirts. He has a presentation at work today and he can’t find his lucky socks. He remembers washing and folding them, putting them away in his sock drawer, just like he always does, but he’s gone through the entire dresser twice and there’s no sign of them. 

 

He’s in the middle of pulling out the drawers to search behind them when a soft, but angry noise alerts him to the cat on the fire escape. The thing has been back nearly every day since it first appeared a week ago, stealing through Eames’ open windows to sniff around his apartment and turn its nose up at Eames’ offers of affection. He’s named it Razzle-Dazzle because the cat seems to hate it and Eames gets a twisted pleasure at getting a reaction when he says it.

 

“Did you do this, you little beast?” Eames huffs, tossing the last drawer on the bed. His room is in disarray, and the damn cat looks amused as it settles in a patch of sun on the windowsill. 

 

“I swear to god, if this is because of the fucking laser pointer, I’m going to nail the windows shut,” he threatens, checking the clock on his nightstand and swearing under his breath. He has three minutes to get out of the house and he still can’t find his fucking socks. Razzle rolls over on the sill, blinking sleepily at Eames, its upside down amber eyes mocking his panic.

 

Eames pulls out two random socks, and pulls them on, laughing when Razzle stands up and hisses at him. “Ha! This is what you get, demon!” 

 

He leans towards the cat, its hackles rising at the closeness. “I don’t know how you did it, Razzle, but I know it was you. It’s always you.” 

 

The cat takes a swipe at him and Eames jumps back, sticking his tongue out at it while he tucks his shirt into his trousers and tries to slip his shoes on at the same time. He slams the door behind him and he’s halfway to work, still muttering about his socks when he realizes he just had an argument with a cat. A second later he has to admit the cat won. Again.

 

When the cat kept coming around, Eames figured it was because it liked him. That they would form a bond and one day, maybe Razzle would lead him to its owner, who would, of course, be gorgeous, lovely, and very interested in someone who had taken the time to form such a strong bond with the cat that kept creeping through his windows. 

 

In reality, Razzle-Dazzle is an asshole of epic proportions. Knocking his things to the floor is practically a loving gesture to the creature, and oh, how Eames longs for those days. Instead, he has missing socks and shredded shirts. They’re always his favourites, too. Razzle is apparently opposed to bright colours and patterns and isn’t afraid to show it. The day it pissed in Eames’ silver patent shoes, he nearly threw the damn animal out the window.

 

They exist in a kind of wary companionship, where they allow each other’s presence until one of them grows bored and takes it out on the other. Like the time with the laser pointer. Eames read that cats liked them, thought maybe it would tire the animal out so he could actually sleep on his own pillow once in awhile. But he’d underestimated this particular cat’s need to conquer, and the cat had ended up going a bit mad and running head first into the wall. It wasn’t at all what Eames had meant to happen, but the cat didn’t understand that and drew blood and fled when Eames tried to comfort it. He hadn’t been unintentionally cruel, and in his opinion, that didn’t call for stealing a man’s socks.

 

**3.**

Eames gets home late that night, his successful presentation leading to dinner with the clients and drinks with his co-workers to celebrate. He’s tired and pleasantly buzzed, but he sobers instantly when he hears the pathetic yowl coming from the fire escape. He drops his jacket and bag and leaps over the couch to shove the window open and stick his head out. 

 

Razzle is laying on its side, licking blood off its matted fur. There are puncture wounds covering its head and shoulders, as well as long gashes across its back, and it protests weakly as Eames scoops it up and into his arms. He takes the cat to the bathroom sink, settling it carefully into the shallow bowl so he can get a better look at its wounds. Razzle doesn’t object to the slow trickle of water, just laps at the cool water as Eames evaluates its injuries. None of them are too deep, the claw marks running crosswise over its back are the worst, and even those have stopped bleeding by the time Eames gets them cleaned.

 

The cat is limp and uncharacteristically pliable when Eames wraps it in a towel and holds it like a baby in his arms, making soothing sounds as he makes himself some tea and pulls a package of sandwich meat out of the fridge. Razzle perks up a little once they’ve eaten, but it doesn’t move from Eames’ lap, simply snuggles closer, kneading at his belly before closing its eyes. Eames carefully scratches Razzle’s ears, avoiding the puncture marks, and the cat melts into a content, purring puddle. There’s a scratch under its eye and it makes the cat look ridiculously dangerous. Like some kind of pirate cat. Arrr. Okay, so maybe he’s still a little drunk. Eames finishes his tea and drops his head to the back of the couch, the tv droning on in the background as he slips into sleep.

 

He wakes when Razzle jumps from his lap and slinks over to the window, limping a little. 

 

“Hey,” Eames rasps, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Where you going?”

 

Razzle lets out an exasperated mewl and jumps to the window sill.

 

“Wait,” Eames calls, clamouring after him. The cat is two stories down by the time Eames makes it onto the fire escape, but he’s determined to follow. If Razzle were Eames’ cat, he’d want to know if it had been hurt and that it had been taken care of, but Razzle doesn’t have a collar and this is Eames’ only way of figuring out where it belongs. 

 

Razzle slips through a window on the fourth floor, the apartment on the corner where the gorgeous and lovely young man with the pristine suits and the converse sneakers lives. The one who keeps his head down but blushes when Eames says hello. The window closes with a slam, stopping Eames from continuing. It’s late, and clearly Razzle’s owner knows he’s home safe now so there’s no reason to go tapping on his window in the middle of the night like a madman. Besides, now he has a reason to go calling on the man in 4B.

 

**4.**

When Eames opens his eyes the next morning there’s a dead gopher on his pillow.

 

“Jesus fuck!” He scrambles out of bed, tangling in the sheets and ending up on his arse on the floor. Razzle meows from the windowsill, haughtily licking its paw.

 

“I think I liked you better when you hated me,” Eames tells the cat, willing his heart rate back to normal. “I’m grateful, but I’m getting rid of it.”

 

Razzle shrugs,  _ shrugs _ , and leaps gracefully onto the floor, slinking into the living room to find a better patch of sunshine. Eames throws on his robe and boots and wraps the gopher in seven layers of garbage bags, adding his sheets to the mix after deciding they’re a loss, and trudges to the dumpster behind the building. Razzle is gone by the time he gets back, and Eames closes all the windows, just in case. He has no desire to come home to another ‘gift’.

 

He goes for a run, stopping on his way back at the fancy home store a few blocks down to buy new sheets. He may not care what fabrics drape his body during the day, but when it comes to his bed, only high thread count Egyptian cotton will do.

 

4B is getting his mail when Eames gets back, making him curse at how sweaty he is. The man spares Eames a quick once over, his face breaking into a wide smile and his cheeks going a delightful pink before turning for the stairs.

 

“Hold on,” Eames calls out, struggling to get his key out of the front door. “I want to talk to you about your cat.”

 

“M-my cat?” The man pauses but doesn’t turn back.

 

“Yeah, it showed up outside my window last night after a fight. I cleaned up the wounds as best I could, but I don’t know much about cats. Seemed fine this morning when it left a rather large rodent on my pillow in thanks, though.”

 

The man makes a choked noise and spins around. “A what?”

 

“A gopher. I don’t know what that means in cat-speak, but I think it’s going to ask me to go steady.” Eames winks and smiles while the man goes pale.

 

“I’m so sorry! I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you again. A gopher? Really? God, I’m so sorry.”

 

“Hey, hey,” Eames puts his hands up to stop the man’s rambling. “It’s fine. We’ve been having a little back and forth, me and Razzle. I don’t mind having them around.”

 

“Razzle?” the man asks, scrunching his face up adorably. There’s a small scratch on his cheek, under his eye and the movement pulls at it, making him wince.

 

“Yeah, the cat hates it, too, but there’s no collar to correct me, so Razzle-Dazzle it is. Unless there’s something else I can call it that will make it less violent?”

 

“A name?” The man asks and Eames is seriously starting to question if this guy is capable of caring for a pet.

 

“For the cat,” he says, slowly.

 

“Oh, no. Um, it’s just cat.”

 

Eames raises his eyebrows. “You named your cat, Cat?”

 

“No, um, it’s kind of weird. The cat’s not really mine. It’s, um. I sort of inherited it. And no name has ever seemed right, you know?” He rubs at the back of his neck and the bashful look he gives Eames has him right back on the 4B attraction train. First class all the way, baby.

 

“I’m Eames, by the way. I’m in 7C.” Eames extends his hand after wiping it on his shorts to get the sweat off.

 

“Oh, right. I’m, I’m Arthur. 4B.” The blush is back and Eames thinks he might be in love.

 

“Charmed,” Eames smiles, regretfully letting go of Arthur’s hand. “You know, now that I’ve seen your smile maybe you should be Dazzle and he can just be Razzle. Maybe we could do lunch one day, or coffee. You, me, and Razzle. He must like you more than he likes me because-”

 

“I can’t,” Arthur blurts, looking away and fiddling with his mail. “I’ve very sorry, I have to go.”

 

Eames stares until Arthur disappears up the stairs, feeling off. Like he overstepped some invisible boundary. He’s spooked Arthur somehow, and he has no idea what did it. Well, it’s not like he doesn’t know where the man lives. He goes up to his flat, scribbling an apology on a piece of scrap paper, then trekking back down the stairs to slip it into 4B’s mailbox.

 

**5.**

A week later Razzle still hasn’t returned. Whenever Eames is on the fire escape or glances up at 4B from the street, the windows are all closed tight. Arthur has been M.I.A. as well, much to Eames’ disappointment.

 

He’s in the laundry room the following weekend, with Mr. Wong and Mrs. Hithers, happily gossiping about the other tenants, when Kyle from 3B comes in with six loads of mixed clothing.

 

“Mom’s coming to visit, is she?” Mr. Wong asks, making Eames snort.

 

“You’re supposed to sort those. There are rules,” Mrs. Hithers lectures. The woman ran a laundromat for forty years and is always happy to judge you by your methods.

 

Kyle sighs and rubs his face. “I know, okay? But the guy above me got a cat and the fucking thing has been crying for days. I haven’t slept more than three hours a night in the last five days.”

 

“Arthur?” Eames asks, worried. “Have you spoken with him?”

 

“I tried. I pounded on his door for the first few days but he’s not there and the cat just gets louder when I do it. I’m ready to call the landlord.”

 

“Don’t do that,” Eames tells him, gathering his things. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

“He’s a quiet boy,” Mrs. Hithers says. “Keeps to himself.”

 

“I’m more worried for the cat, honestly,” Eames tells them, leaving.

 

He drops his basket off on his couch and climbs out his living room window, carefully making his way down to Arthur’s flat. The curtains are all drawn, but he can hear Razzle yowling so he forces the window open, thankful that it’s not locked. The second there’s enough space, Razzle is darting out and into his lap, nuzzling and rubbing on him, purring loudly as Eames strokes his fur, running a fingertip over a cut on the back of his paw.

 

“Now, now, it’s alright,” he coos, sticking his head through the window. The flat is a mess, picture frames and knick-knacks on the floor, stuffing coming out of deep gashes on the couch. Razzle’s food and water dishes have been overturned and the stench of cat piss is too strong to be ignored. “Arthur?” he calls, really starting to worry.

 

When there’s no response, Eames climbs through the window. Razzle hisses and scampers off, heading up the fire escape to Eames’ open window. Arthur’s not home, and Eames feels wrong poking around his rooms, but there’s a strong sense of relief that floods through him when he doesn’t find a body. Arthur’s flat is tidy, well, Eames assumes it is when it doesn’t have an angry cat rampaging through it on a daily basis. But underneath the smashed ceramic and the scratches on the walls, the rooms are cozy and warm. 

 

Eames notices that besides the food and water dishes, there’s no indication that a cat lives there. No toys or litter box, not even a scratching post, which he may regret now that Razzle has taken their anger out on his belongings. Eames leaves Arthur another note on the back of a half shredded piece of junk mail, telling him there were complaints about Razzle’s crying and that he’s liberated the cat. He hesitates, then asks Arthur to call him if he needs to talk, jotting his number down and leaving it on the counter by the stove.

 

He closes the window behind him and goes back to his flat, not surprised to find Razzle napping contently in a patch of sunlight. The cat pries open an eye when Eames climbs inside and blocks his light, growling softly before resettling.

 

“Over your tantrum, are you?” Eames asks, bending to scratch between Razzle’s ears. The wounds are mostly gone, just the claw marks dividing the soft grey fur on its back remain.

 

He settles on the couch to fold his laundry, chuckling when the cat jumps into the basket of warm clothes. Razzle barely even scratches when Eames steals items out from under them, so Eames figures he’s destined to wake up to some fresh horror laid at his doorstep in the morning in thanks. Once he’s finished the laundry he sprawls out on the couch, ready for his traditional Sunday afternoon nap. Razzle jumps onto Eames’ stomach, kneading with its paws until satisfied that all of Eames’ organs are in their designated places, and curls into a ball.

 

Eames wakes later in dim light with Razzle shuddering on top of him. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

 

Razzle cries out, falling onto the floor, lashing out at Eames when he tries to pick them up. Razzle yowls and it sounds like the cat is screaming no over and over as it drags itself to the window. It’s on the fire escape before Eames can stop it, making its clumsy way down the ladders to the fourth floor. Eames follows, worried, catching up when Razzle finds the window Eames closed behind him and starts ramming its head against the glass.

 

“Stop, wait, I’ll open it!” Eames tries to hold the cat back, but it squirms from his grasp and launches itself through the window as soon as it’s open. Eames’ hand reaches after it, but he pauses halfway through climbing inside because Razzle is shaking so hard and so fast that the cat is starting to blur. There’s a quiet woof of air and a rough grunt, and then Arthur is in front of him, crouched naked on the throw rug, his breath almost as strangled as Eames’ is.

 

“What the fuck?” Eames whispers and Arthur’s head whips up. His wide eyes are still that smoky orange colour, like liquid amber, and small grey ears twitch on the top of his head.

 

“Eames,” Arthur starts, his voice still a low, purring timber.

 

Eames pushes himself back, stumbling in his haste to get away. To try and recapture the sanity he swore he possessed two minutes prior because there is no possible way he just watched his cat turn into his neighbour.

 

**+1.**

The mug is shaking in his hand when Arthur climbs through his window fifteen minutes later, bare feet thudding on the hardwood as he cautiously approaches Eames. His eyes have gone back to brown and the cat ears have disappeared, but there’s still an easy grace in his movements. Something natural, and balanced, and  _ feline _ . There’s a cut on the back of Arthur’s hand and Eames really should have figured it out before now.

 

“Are you really drinking tea?” Arthur asks. “You watch a cat turn into a man and you reach for tea?”

 

“I’m British,” Eames tells him, taking a step back. “And it’s half whisky.”

 

The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirk upwards. “I went for tequila myself. The first time it happened.”

 

“You’re a cat,” Eames tells him earnestly, like somehow Arthur doesn’t understand what’s happened.

 

“I’m not, actually. I’d like to explain, if you’ll let me.” Arthur backs up and leans on the windowsill, leaving a good ten feet of space between them.

 

“Am I crazy?” Eames asks, desperate for an answer.

 

Arthur chuckles tiredly. “No. And neither am I, I promise.”

 

“Then how the fuck are you a cat?” Eames demands, falling into a kitchen chair.

 

“I’m not. Look, can I close this?” he asks, turning to the window. “I’ve never explained this to anyone before and the last thing I need is Mr. Wong hearing and spreading it around the building.”

 

Eames shrugs and takes a deep drink, exhaling as the warmth of the tea and liquor curls through him.

 

“I haven’t always been like this,” Arthur says quietly, staring at his hands. “It’s only been a few months. I don’t, I mean, I’m not sure, but it started after my grandfather died. He was my mom’s dad, but they weren’t close. My mom said he was...odd. He left when she was little, said he couldn’t live two lives or something, I don’t know. She only saw him a handful of times growing up and she said he seemed weirder each time. Almost feral.” He glances at Eames, a sad smile on his face and Eames notices the dark circles under Arthur’s eyes.

 

“Anyway, I was at home one night, just watching tv, when I started to shake. I don’t remember much about changing, I never do, but when I woke up I had these memories. Just quick flashes of streets and that, but they were different. The colours were off, but I could see things better. I know that sounds crazy, but…”

 

“But I watched you transform from a cat,” Eames fills in.

 

Arthur nods, biting his lip. “Exactly. The same thing happened two days later while I was on my way to work. I had to jump off the bus and hide in an alley. I was lucky my wallet and keys were still hidden behind a dumpster when I went back. Anyway, that’s the day my mom phoned to tell me her dad had died a few days earlier, and it all just clicked.”

 

“So you’re telling me you come from cat-people?” Eames says slowly.

 

“No! I don’t know. Argh,” Arthur grips his hair in his hands. “I have no idea. I tried to ask my mom, but she looked at me like I was losing my mind, and my grandma won’t talk about him, so I have no idea what I am or why I’m like this.”

 

“What do you know?” Eames tries, wanting suddenly to calm Arthur.

 

“I know that I didn’t ask for this. I know that I’m extremely lucky that working from home is an option. I know that I’m getting better at reading the signs that tell me I’m going to change. And I know that the cat really, really likes you.”

 

Eames raises his eyebrows. “It  _ likes _ me? I mean, I didn’t lock it in my apartment for days on end, but I’m not exactly nice to it.”

 

“It doesn’t need you to be nice. It just needs someone to pay attention, and you do that.” Arthur slumps, looking defeated.

 

“And you’re not the cat,” Eames says, wanting to be sure.

 

“No,” Arthur exhales. “I don’t know how that works either, but I am not the cat. It’s, well, I’m generally nicer than it is, but it’s much more forward.”

 

Eames rolled his eyes at the understatement. “How much of ‘cat time’ do you remember?”

 

Arthur bows his head, his ears going pink. “Only bits and pieces.”

 

“Such as?” Eames prompts.

 

“Its time with you,” Arthur admits, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have those memories. And it did steal all your ugly socks.”

 

“I knew it!” Eames jumps to his feet, startling Arthur. “Sorry. But I knew it!” 

 

“They were really ugly.”

 

“They’re supposed to be ugly, Arthur, they’re  _ quirky _ !” Eames walks towards him, poking Arthur in the chest. “You hear that, Razzle? They’re supposed to be ugly!”

 

“Why are you shouting at me?” Arthur asks.

 

Eames flushes and takes a step back, dropping his hand. “Sorry.”

 

“I’m not the cat.”

 

“I know,” Eames says.

 

“But I have seen you naked,” Arthur admits.

 

Eames can’t help but grin. “And?” 

 

“And what?” Arthur frowns.

 

“What did you think?”

 

“The cat wasn’t impressed.”

  
“Razzle, Arthur. Just give into it already. And I didn’t ask what the cat thought.”

 

“Fine, Razzle. I didn’t, you know, I wasn’t  _ un _ impressed,” he says, looking away.

 

“Are you wooing me, Arthur? You speak such sweet words, but I just can’t tell,” Eames drawls.

 

“It wasn’t like Razzle painted me a picture, okay? I only get glimpses. And you only saw me naked for a few seconds, so I doubt you’d have a better breakdown on me.”

 

“Pert ass, strong shoulders, and you’ve a birthmark in the shape of an arrow on the inside of your left thigh,” Eames tells him primly.

 

“Jesus, you should be a sharpshooter or something.”

 

“Who says I’m not?” 

 

“The fact that you nearly fell to your death trying to get away from me when I changed. Not exactly grace under fire,” Arthur says, dryly.

 

“You transformed from a cat into a bloody man!” 

 

“Right, I meant to thank you for that as well. I was a little shaken up when you approached me in the lobby that day and being that close to you, so soon after, well, after changing back. It was overwhelming. I know that you took care of Razzle, and I wanted you to know that I really appreciate it.”

 

“I took care of you, too,” Eames reminds him.

 

“No, it’s different. I’m not the cat and it’s not me.”

 

“You know, maybe this feels so uncontrollable because you refuse to believe the two of you are connected. I mean, you share a body, Arthur. You’re at least a little bit the same thing.”

 

“I’m not a cat,” Arthur insists.

 

“No, and Razzle’s not a man. But somehow, sometimes, you’re the same thing. When you’re changing you don’t just pop from one to the other. It’s a transition. And clearly when one of you gets hurt, the other suffers, as well.” Eames touches the cut on the back of Arthur’s hand.

 

“I’ve never seen myself change. I’ve been too scared to tape it. What if someone found out?” Arthur’s voice is full of fear and Eames can’t stop himself from reaching for his hand again.

 

“I found out. Maybe that’s enough.” Eames rubs his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles.

 

Arthur gives him a shaky smile. “Maybe.”

 

“I won’t tell anyone, Arthur, I swear.”

 

Arthur nods, pulling his hand back. “Thank you.”

 

“How often do you change?”

 

Arthur shrugs. “It depends. Sometimes daily, sometimes once a week. It hasn’t been long enough to discern a pattern yet. But more, since Razzle met you.”

 

“Right. And why did you close your windows?”

 

Arthur groans, his head sinking into his hands. “I thought I could keep it from getting out again. From bothering you. You followed it to my window, Eames. You approached me about it. It brought you a freaking dead gopher! You’re attached, the two of you, and when you asked me to lunch, the cat, it went a little crazy because it really, really wanted that. I could feel it coming on. I could feel myself changing right there in front of you, and I was terrified. So I locked myself in and closed the windows so he couldn’t get out.”

 

Eames frowns. “Wait, did you not change back all week?”

 

“Only for short periods. Long enough to clean up a bit and put out more food. Then the cat would go nuts again and I’d change. It  _ really _ doesn’t like being separated from you.”

 

“If Razzle was happy, why did you start to change in my apartment?”

 

The look Arthur gives him is pleading, but Eames holds his ground. 

 

“Because I was happy, too. I wanted to spend time with you, too. Here with you, I felt content, and safe, and I wanted you to see me, too, not just the cat.”

 

Eames smiles, something warm and light blooming in his chest as he steps closer. “Arthur, darling. I’ve always seen you. Since the very first day, I’ve  _ seen _ you. Razzle is a nice companion, but they’re a bit of an asshole. Besides, Razzle bites.”

 

Arthur quirks a small smile, flushing. “Maybe I bite, too.”

 

“I am aching to find out,” Eames says and kisses him.

 

#########

 

Eames wakes in the morning to pinpricks of pain on his chest and a velvet tongue grooming his beard. He’d gone to sleep with Arthur wrapped around him, solid and warm, and a little rougher than usual, but this is good too. He yawns and Razzle headbuts him with an angry growl, clealy not impressed with Eames interrupting their task. So Eames lays back and submits to the cat’s will, knowing by now that whether he’s dealing with Arthur or the cat, it’s easier to just give in and let them take care of him.

 

Eames think life is just about perfect with Arthur to share it with and Razzle to keep him on his toes. They’re all getting better at sensing the change, and Eames is usually able to coax them through it. Arthur still has his flat downstairs, but it’s more of a workspace these days.  So Eames kisses him goodbye in the mornings and props the window open so Razzle can slip in and lay in the afternoon sun while Eames types away on his keyboard, crafting a new book series about a young boy who discovers he has the ability to transform into a cat. 

 

He’s in love with them both, but only Razzle knows it. His and Arthur’s six month anniversary is coming up and he’s saving it for then. Razzle doesn’t approve, but Eames knows he won’t ruin the surprise. 

 

Razzle still knocks things off the counters, but sometimes Arthur joins him in the shower, so it all evens out. Razzle hates the cat food Arthur tries to force on him, and Arthur hates finding cat hairs in his mouth, but Eames loves them both terribly and can’t wait for when they both know it. They’re happy here, Eames, with his Razzle and his Dazzle.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
